the burbs

Live on the periphery
where no one dare color.
Your fantasy
another man’s grave.

Each blade sliced
half way between
red and green. She
gathered the clippings
into her apron,
cupped about her waist.
The water dripped
from the edge of her skirt
hemmed above her knees.
He kept cutting, until
not one blade was left,
his hair a mess.

Poetry

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